Golden Boy
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Something's burning inside Dean, and it's not just the heat. Loose sequel to "Find and Seek."


_This story first appeared in _Blood Brothers 2 _(2008), from Gold'n Lily Press_

**Golden Boy**  
K Hanna Korossy

At first, he thought it was their proximity to Rockford, and Roosevelt Asylum.

It wasn't like the place had good memories for either of them, but Dean… Sam had to concede that being shot by your brother was more traumatic than being influenced to shoot your brother. A lot of water had passed under that bridge already, and he was pretty sure Dean knew now he would never have done it in his right mind. Still, they wouldn't exactly be heading to Rockford on vacation any time soon. If they took vacations.

But after he'd subtly brought up the subject, Dean had seemed genuinely surprised at the reminder of the asylum, so that didn't seem to be it. Sam preferred to think he could read his brother better than that.

Then maybe it was the heat, which was…well, Hell came to mind. It was Illinois in July, not exactly Death Valley, but the Midwest was under a heat wave. The sauna outdoors made their clothes tacky and the Impala almost unbearable and Sam a little lightheaded the day he forgot to eat, and their tempers had flared a few times.

Dean made sure they got a room with working a/c, however, and even hours in the cool indoors hadn't changed anything, so Sam was back to square one.

"You left your window down again last night," Dean said bluntly as he came inside and slammed the door shut against the heat that immediately tried to pour in after him.

Sam looked up from his laptop, wincing. "Sorry, man, forgot—anything missing?"

"No. Even the town punks are probably taking time off in this oven. But that's not the point, Sam." Dean tilted his head sideways to frown at him. "Somebody could've cleaned out the trunk, torn up the inside, even taken off with her. I shouldn't have to remind you, college boy, she's all we've got. She goes, and we're left with zilch."

Sam straightened, empathy beating a hasty retreat. "You don't have to tell me that, Dean. I just forgot—I'm sorry, all right? Nothing was taken so…no harm done."

Dean's face made the small shift from irritation to outright anger. "No harm done?" he repeated disbelievingly. "And what happens the next time, when something does happen, huh? 'Oh, sorry, Dean,' again? 'Cause I gotta tell you, Sam, that doesn't really cut it."

"Yeah, not much does these days, does it?" Sam said sourly under his breath.

"What?" Dean's voice dropped, lethal and still.

So, not Rockford, not the heat. Not the case, which after three days of research, was frustrating but hardly the toughest or most obscure hunt they'd been on. There was Dean's traumatic adventure of a little over a week before involving a small, dark space, a lot of dead bodies, and rats; his fingers still bore the scabs of having tried to claw his way out. But he'd found his equilibrium in the days after, so unless this was some really fast, weird PTSD setting in, Sam doubted that was the issue here. No, nothing he was coming up with explained this tone, this irritation, this friggin' fissure that had opened up between them since they'd hit Byron.

Sam shifted, swallowing a sigh. "Nothing."

"No." Dean tossed his keys on the bed, his body loose and set. Fighting stance. "You got something to say to me, Sam, say it."

Sam shifted his jaw, then nodded. Fine. If Dean wanted a throwdown, Sam could do that. Beat the silent circling and skirmishes. He stood, pulling himself up to his full height. "All right. How 'bout you tell me then what's got you so keyed up the last few days."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I'm just tired of your attitude, you think of that?"

"What attitude?" Sam asked, throwing his hands wide. "Dude, I've barely had a chance to _have _an attitude, I've been so busy dodging yours. I left a knife in the car, my shaving stuff's in your way, I got salad dressing on your journal—oh, and my personal favorite, I _sleep _too loud? What's up with that, man?"

"If you don't like it, nobody's making you stay."

The silence after that was ripe.

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but then he caught the moment of panic that darted through Dean's eyes as what his mouth had just done finally registered in his brain. Blank determination immediately followed, pride backing up his bluff.

But the peek was enough. Sam's anger retreated, leaving him more confused than piqued. "I'm not taking off again, Dean, I told you. Dude. Come on, talk to me."

Dean's face creased; he was warring with himself. Wanting to accept the offer, Sam could see it, but too stubborn, or maybe too out of practice, to do so. Who knew, maybe that fear went even deeper than the glimpse Sam had seen. Not like he'd know, because Dean turned away, shoulders set. "Just…close your window next time. If Dad knew how we were taking care of the car—"

Sam snorted, bitterness suddenly in his mouth. "Dad. Right. Because he cares so much about how we're doing right now." He turned away to shuffle the papers on the table into a pile. _Dad _would never have approved of the mess Sam made when he researched, copies and notes and books spilling everywhere.

Dean stopped to glare at him again. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means what it means—he calls us once, after six months of us looking for him, just to tell us not to come after him. I mean," Sam abandoned the piles and turned to face his brother again, arms flexing in exasperation, "he doesn't even ask if we found anything in our old house, didn't ask about _Mom_. For all I know, he doesn't even care—"

Dean's stalk took him into Sam's space in two steps and half a blink. "Don't you say it," he grated, low and hard. "Don't you even think about finishing that line."

"Dude, think for yourself, already! The man is out of our lives—we're on our own here. We don't have to keep following his orders from…_years _ago. It's _your_ car now, _our_ weapons—"

"He made those rules to keep us alive, Sam."

"Yeah, and that's worked great so far, hasn't it! You nearly died once, Dean. Jess's dead. Mom's—"

"I know the frickin' list—you don't have to remind me."

"So stop defending him!"

"Maybe I will when you stop attacking him!"

Sam scoffed. "You're never gonna see him any different, are you? You've always been his favorite, the golden boy who could do no wrong."

Dean's face filled with thunder, eyes darkening. It was how he looked at the enemy. "The golden boy." He laughed, the sound ugly and bleak. "That what you really think?"

Sam paused. It felt like the rules had suddenly changed, uncertainty replacing the righteous anger of a moment before. But Winchesters didn't back off battles, so his voice just slipped into cajoling, playing along. "Come on, man, you were always his favorite. Could do no wrong, best at everything, Dad's perfect soldier…"

Too late came the echo from Rockford.

Dean's expression smoothed out, emotion leeching away. "Right. His favorite." He was nodding. "Yeah, sure. Dad, he thought so much of me that even though I did everything he asked, tried to be everything he wanted, when you left, he wasn't far behind you. Though, hey, wasn't that big a change. I mean, he barely said two words to me outside the hunt after you were gone—not like I was gonna miss the company. But, yeah, since I was his golden boy, it must've just been because he cared so much about me, right?" Dean sneered, then turned and headed for the door.

His hand was trembling as he reached for the knob, and Sam was pretty sure it wasn't from rage.

And, also, that maybe he'd been wrong about a few things here.

"Dean," he dropped his pride and begged. "I'm sorry, all right? Don't go."

Dean hovered there a few moments, back to him, unmoving. And just when Sam thought he'd reached him, that maybe they could sit down and talk instead of striking out and cutting down and drawing blood, Dean's shoulders inched together. "I need a drink," he said tersely, and walked out. The door slammed shut behind him.

Sam stared after him, then slumped into his chair. "Well, as long as there're no hard feelings," he murmured to the empty room. But the words felt heavy, wrong.

And he'd rarely felt so…alone.

00000

Dean came back an hour later, smelling of nothing but sweat and tension. That was an apology in itself; he could stay out all night when he was really mad or had a lot of frustration to burn off. But he didn't speak to Sam, just turned the TV on and threw himself onto the bed. He barely even looked his brother's way, and Sam knew he was neither forgiven nor forgotten. He tuned the TV out and kept researching—or rather, started, because he hadn't exactly gotten a lot done while Dean was gone—trying not to feel like a jerk.

Being a little brother again, however, especially after three years of just being _Sam_, had a tendency to make him feel small.

Dean ended up dozing off in front of the TV. Sam finally rose with a sigh and turned the set gradually down and off—the hunter in Dean roused at every abrupt change—followed by the lights. Oddly enough, however, Dean's defenses never reacted to his family's ministrations, and he barely murmured when Sam pulled his boots off. When he was finished tucking Dean in, Sam sat on the edge of his own bed facing his brother, rubbing both hands tiredly over his face.

Something was eating at Dean. If the tables were turned, the elder Winchester would be poking at him until Sam poured it all out. He didn't know how to make Dean do the same, though; pushing only made him bristle and push back. Sam was missing something here, and he couldn't help feel like a bad brother for it. But Dean had been the one who'd always looked after him, not the other way around.

Sam sighed and started stripping for bed. Then again, Dean had trusted Sam to find him the week before when he'd been trapped in that nightmare of a cellar. Shoved him away afterward, but then hung on painfully hard to Sam when his bravado broke. Dean had leaned on him then. No matter what had changed in the week since—and Sam still couldn't think of a freakin' thing—they'd been good at that point.

He fell asleep as he always did those days, listening to Dean breathe, and wondered how the same presence could be so reassuring and frustrating at the same time.

00000

The sound of running water woke him. Sam squinted at the clock between the beds. A little after seven. Early for Dean, but then, they'd crashed early the night before. Sam was just sitting up, yawning, when the door opened, and he warily lifted his head to see if Jekyll or Hyde would emerge.

Dean only glanced at him as he went through his duffel looking for clean clothes. "You have a bead on this thing yet?" he asked dispassionately.

Sam shook his head. "No."

Dean's head came up, eyes narrowing. "Dude, we've been here almost four days—"

"—and we still don't know what we're up against. It's a big city; I haven't been able to check every suspicious death or event, and I actually wanted to get some sleep last night," Sam said with forced patience, glancing sideways at Dean. Hyde it was, then.

Dean had gotten his jeans on and was reaching for his boots. "We should just go check the place out. We'll find out soon enough what we're looking at."

Sam straightened. "Dean. No. We did that last time, and you ended up—" He saw Dean's jaw bunch and dropped that line. Dean knew very well what had happened last time. "We need more time to check—"

"The whole city's history?" Dean glanced up at him from the edge of the bed, eyebrow rising cynically. "You planning on us staying a couple of weeks, Sam?"

Okay, so it wasn't the best plan in the world. It still beat the heck out of desperately trying to find his brother before Dean went crazy. Sam shook his head, his own face setting. "No. We wait and find out everything we can first."

"What, so now you're in charge, too?" Dean's mouth quirked as he said it, head tucking to the side, but there was no amusement there.

"What?" Sam frowned. "No, I'm not in charge—you and me, we're _partners_ in this. Or," he added churlishly to the bedspread, "I thought we were." He pinned Dean with a look. _Talk to me or lay off._

"That right?" Dean said, rising to his feet, and there was an odd tone to his voice Sam couldn't quite place. He stood still, considering Sam a moment. "So…you don't really think I got used to being your parent when you were a kid and I can't just let it go and be your brother now?"

Sam tilted his head, frown deepening, trying to figure out where that had come from, why it felt familiar.

"Or, what was it? Oh yeah, that I was so dependent on Dad when we were little that I was brainwashed into following him?" Dean was rolling up his sleeves, but he was still watching Sam.

It niggled his brain, the way Dean seemed to be almost quoting…

"Or, hey, how about that I have no ambition because Dad blinded me to—"

Sam's mouth dropped open as realization hit like a two-by-four. "You read the file."

Dean's eyebrow danced up in a silent utter lack of denial.

Sam rose slowly, incredulously, to his feet. "You _stole _the file from Ellicott's son's office and you read it, didn't you?"

"Now you're worried about patient confidentiality?"

Fury flared fresh and hot in his gut. Here he'd been worrying himself sick about Dean's proximity to the asylum, when it was his access to the psychologist's office Sam should have worried about. Dean had probably even jumped at this job for its location. All Sam's contrition, all that pathetic concern instantly dropped away. "Do you even _care_ what I think?" he seethed. "I mean, why did you even bother taking the file if what I want matters so little to you, Dean? Why did you even want me to…" He faltered, then, in a fit of temper, shoved the bedding off the mattress and braced his arms in its place. "Why did you even want me back?" he burst out.

Crickets would have been chirping if the heat hadn't already baked every insect in the area into a coma.

There was a long pause. Had Sam not been so utterly outraged and hurt, he might've registered that his brother's silence was fraught with the uncertainty Sam had felt before. Or that Dean Winchester didn't usually shuffle in place. Or that his contrition tended to be so subtle, it was practically invisible. But the quiet tone, the choice of pronoun, the fact he said anything at all carried every hallmark of having gone too far and regretting it. At least, when Sam could stop to think about it much too much later.

"We need to go check out the junkyard."

Sam didn't register any of it just then, however. Only the throb of near-pain in his head from the roil of emotions, the way his clothes didn't seem to want to cooperate as he yanked them on, and how the baking heat took a while to penetrate his frigid hands did as he stalked past Dean, out to the car.

They didn't say another word on the way to the yard.

Their throwdown had become more of a blowup, Sam reflected in the silence, but at least he knew what was on Dean's mind now.

He really should've been more careful what he wished for.

00000

You weren't supposed to go into a hunt mad.

It was another of their dad's rules, which didn't exactly endear it to Sam at the moment. But he happened to agree with this one. There were too many unpredictables in life. And while he couldn't even stand to look at or talk to Dean right now, the thought of something happening to him with bad blood between them was one of the few things that could make Sam even more miserable right now.

And so he stopped Dean at the trunk as his brother finished arming them and stepped away.

"Dean…"

Dean pulled away at his touch.

Sam retreated. "Just…" He broke off, not sure what he even wanted to say, the anger still too fresh.

Dean stared at him a moment, then huffed what might've been a laugh. "You know why you butted heads with Dad so often, Sam?" he said quietly. "Because the two of you are so freakin' alike."

It didn't sound mad, or pointed, or insulting. Dean just sounded…tired. And maybe sad.

When he looked away from Sam, Sam let him go. After a moment's awkward pause, they both turned and headed in.

The junkyard was privately run, a much larger version of Bobby's collection of junker cars, plus broken appliances, rusting machinery, and decaying furniture. A ghost tagging along with one of the metal corpses, or perhaps one of them being a cursed object, wasn't a big surprise. Nor even necessarily a job; a lot of places and things had quiet, harmless attachments to the afterlife. No, it was when this one had started trying to drop two-ton blocks of steel on people's heads and had sent a little boy to the hospital with a broken shoulder and arm, that a friend of a friend of a friend had tracked Sam and Dean down for help.

Considering they were looking at twelve acres of debris from thousands of people on the edge of a major city, the job was more than a little daunting. Sam glanced over as Dean flicked on the EMF meter. The device immediately flared to life, and Sam's optimism rose…until Dean shook his head and shut it off. "Electric fence," he said tersely, and that was that.

Right. So, needle-in-a-stack-of-needles time. Sam sighed, already hot and tired despite the relative coolness of the early morning, and considering the mountains of machinery-filled terrain they were up against, it wasn't likely to get better. He hefted his gun and glanced over at Dean again. "We should split up."

He said it reluctantly, and saw the flicker of shared unease in Dean's eyes. They got hurt more often when they split up, and it wore them down, having to keep a 360 watch on their own.

Sometimes, however, such as when faced with twelve acres to search, there weren't a lot of options unless they wanted to be there for days. And Dean hadn't exactly let him finish his research to narrow down what they were looking for.

Dean grunted, a reluctant assent. "I'll go left. You get reception out here?"

Good point. Sam quickly pulled out his phone and checked. "Yeah. Half-hour check-ins?"

Dean nodded, sharp, then flicked his eyes over. "Don't forget to keep drinking."

Right. Their gear on this hunt included water bottles. Sam's armpits were already soaked under his overshirt, but they needed the layers for padding in case things got rough. He nodded and veered toward the right.

Then stopped, looking back.

Dean hadn't done the same and was already a dozen feet away, intent on his hunt. If he felt Sam's eyes on his back, he gave no sign.

Sam finally sighed and turned away, his attention shifting forward. He was still mad at Dean, the thought of his brother stealing and reading his psych file making his blood boil far more than the beating sun. Right now, he didn't want to see or even be anywhere near the guy.

But that didn't stop the budding anxiety as the distance widened between them.

00000

Junkyards were miserable places to be in the summer.

There was no vegetation besides a few patches of scraggly grass trying to force its way through the hard-packed earth. No breeze was able to find its way between the piles of old cars, and with the sun overhead, there was no shade. All the metal reflected the heat, and everywhere Sam looked, the air shimmered. He'd already polished off two bottles of water and would pretty soon finish the third and last and have to head back to the car for more or risk dehydration.

Speaking of which, he glanced at his watch, it was almost time for check-in, and he might as well take the initiative.

Dean had called the first two times, both communications brief and blunt. But he'd hesitated at the end the second time, after his gruff questioning that Sam was okay, and Sam had found himself holding his breath, waiting for…something. An apology, maybe, even a backhanded one. An excuse. A joke. Even a complaint. Something Sam could latch on to and build on, because with the external heat and distance had come internal cooling off and drawing nearer. Considering all they'd been through, did he really want to keep his brother at arm's length because Dean had craved some insight into him? If the last few weeks had taught Sam anything, it was that Dean was less secure and fearless than Sam had ever realized. Whether his leaving had done that or what he was starting to see was Dean's own less-than-perfect relationship with their dad, it was still who his brother was. And Dean wasn't the only one guilty of not reacting well to the truth.

But Dean hadn't said anything, just hung up again, and Sam…Sam was starting to feel like the girl his brother always accused him of being, wondering what Dean was thinking, practicing what to say to him. This was stupid. Dean was his brother. Sam loved him more than anything in the world, and knew for fact the reverse was true. It was time to just say as much, let Dean bluster and blush through it, but finally clear the air. Life, especially a Winchester's life, was too short for anything else.

Sam nodded to himself and pressed speed dial.

The phone rang four times, then dumped him into voice mail. _"This is Dean. If you—"_

Sam clicked off with a frown, tried again.

_"This is Dean—"_

He turned immediately and started back toward the front of the junkyard, dialing again.

_"This is—"_

Not good. This was not good. Sam broke into a jog.

There was the small matter, however, of twelve acres of junkyard spread out around him. And while he could probably narrow down where Dean was likely to be to just a fraction of that, that was still a lot of area to search around, piles and stacks and walls to vet out. Finding Dean there would be no easier than finding their reluctant spirit. Sam shifted his jaw and kept running, calling out now, "Dean!"

He retraced his steps to where they'd split up, then headed the direction he'd last seen Dean go. Sam knew his brother, knew Dean tended to check the smaller corners first, leave the bigger areas to last. He kept walls to his back as best he could. He would've stayed in the shade as much as possible, which until just recently would've meant the west sides of the piles. Sam pieced together his brother's likeliest route and moved rapidly around the towering obstacles, searching every corner.

"Dean!"

He stopped sometimes to dial Dean's phone, getting only voice mail, not hearing the ring. If something had drawn Dean away…he would have called in. Sam was sure of that. His brother didn't let tension between them get in the way of a hunt, was too good for that. And if he'd gotten a shot off, Sam would have heard it in the dead air of midday.

_"Dean!"_

Something moved in the corner of his eye.

He turned, wildly hopeful for a moment, then falling still as he realized the shadow was moving much differently than his brother: jerky and rising. Sam shifted his grip on his shotgun and waited, glued to his side vision, stilling his hard breathing to hear, not moving a muscle.

There. Dark and bulky. It was…climbing, not rising, and Sam dared turn his head a little to get a better look.

And cringed. That definitely wasn't a spirit. The big ears, height that rivaled Sam's, and oily, scaly skin could only be one thing, in fact.

Sam very slowly slid the hand that held the phone into his pocket, trading it out for the handgun tucked there, blessing Dean's thoroughness in making sure he had regular rounds as well as salt ones.

He held his breath as the shadow stopped moving. There was a long impasse, while Sam imagined a dozen bad ways his brother could have met the same enemy.

The gremlin suddenly swung toward him, its motions as stilted as a flickering ghost but very, very solid, and fast. Sam barely had time to draw and aim before it swept up what looked like an old, bulky microwave and held it poised to throw at him.

Three bullets in the torso, then one to the head as the creature wavered. It froze again, and this time it crumpled. The microwave fell on it, half burying it.

Sam advanced on it warily. Gremlins were the jokers—well, that and Tricksters—of the supernatural world, malicious to the point of lethal. They should have made the list of candidates for this hunt, but no eyewitness has mentioned even a glimpse of them, and all the objects around with personal histories had made a spirit or a cursed object far more likely. Sam cursed fluently under his breath as he neared the ugly creature and prodded it with his toe. It didn't budge, its ambushing days over.

But what if it had already gotten Dean? If it had even crossed paths with him, and a real spirit, or some stupid accident, or even the sun hadn't gotten Dean instead. Sam's face drew together as he pulled out his phone and dialed again.

"_This—"_

He snapped the phone shut, gave the dead gremlin a poisonous look, drained his last bottle of water, and started looking again.

"Dean!"

Sam alternated yelling with dialing Dean's phone.

"Dean!"

He checked his progress against the fence and the distant main office, making sure he didn't accidentally double back, silently grateful to his dad for the skills John Winchester had drilled into his boys.

"Dean, c'mon!"

Couldn't help but get the irony that they were in this bind because they'd split up, because Sam himself had pulled a John Winchester and chosen practicality over safety. Just what he wanted when Dean was missing, to understand his dad a little more.

"Dean, man, answer me!"

Déjà vu—déjà _felt_—this fear: Dean missing, Sam alone. It was lousy, being alone.

_"Dean!"_

He'd need water again soon, and if _he_ did…

It took the third ring of the phone before Sam realized he was hearing a faint overlay of sound, a few rough notes. By the time Dean's recorded voice started, Sam had swung around, bellowing for Dean, already dialing again.

There was no answer, but the rock ringtone of Dean's phone was closer, oddly echoing and hollow, and that was answer enough. Sam veered sharply, honing in on the sound just as it stopped.

He was standing in front of a large metal panel truck, twisted and bent into a pile of other trashed vehicles.

Sam swallowed, giving himself one second to be terrified. The steel box radiated heat. If Dean was in there…

That was as far as he allowed himself to think. The next second, Sam was sliding into place at the back of the truck, already banging on the door.

"Dean! Can you hear me? Make a noise, dude, something—"

It had been some sort of delivery truck once, the paint long since faded from its side. Its door rolled up…when it wasn't jammed, warped off its rollers. The gremlin had made good and sure its prey was trapped. Sam cursed, pulling at the door with one hand while dialing with the other, and immediately heard Dean's phone begin playing on the other side. But still not a sound from his brother.

Sam blanked his mind of everything but how to get into the truck. Shotgun and phone dropped into the dirt, and Sam climbed up onto the truck's skewed bumper and set his feet. Then he grabbed hold of the handle with both hands and yanked.

It didn't budge at first. He reset his feet, tried again. Metal screeched under the force, and Sam's slick hands slipped on what he barely realized was burning steel. Sam pulled one hand free, wiped the palm on his damp jeans, then grasped the handle again, pulling with all his might. There wasn't anyone to call for help; Dean had warned the yard's owners off the property for the day, and anyone coming from farther away would be too late. It was all on Sam.

Groaning, the door slid up a few inches and stuck again.

Sam immediately jumped back down and bent toward the crack. The heat inside was frightening, the rush of it against his face almost shoving him back. But beyond it, in the dimness, he could see a shape. It took him a moment to realize it was a hand, silver ring a soft glint.

Things kind of blurred after that.

There was a crowbar, or at least some bar of solid metal, and Sam put so much power into levering it that he saw black spots in his vision. But the door gave inch by reluctant inch, until with a dying shriek, it rolled up halfway and stuck there.

Sam was already inside.

"Dean, I'm here. I'm here," he repeated as he scrambled to his brother's side.

The interior of the truck felt like an oven. The first breath was already scorching Sam's lungs and burning his skin, and Dean could have been in there for as long as an hour, but at least thirty minutes. Could someone survive that long in superheated air like this? Sam's hands shook as he reached for his brother's prone, sprawled body, avoiding red skin, tugging him back by his jacket instead.

Dean rolled loosely onto his back, a bruised lump on his temple revealing why he hadn't called for help. His eyes were closed in his flushed face, and while his clothes were soaked with sweat, his face was dry, deep red where it had rested on the burning-metal truck floor. Sam laid a hand on his chest, leaning close to his mouth, listening and feeling.

Dean's heart strained weakly under his palm, his breath faint, fast puffs of air.

Sam closed his eyes, just for a half-second. "Okay, I'm gonna get you out of here," he breathed. "All right? Get you nice and cooled down."

If he only had some water.

He glanced around frantically even as he pulled Dean upright and started peeling off his shirts. His brother's favorite shotgun lay on the ground outside the truck—Sam hadn't even noticed until now—and beyond it—

"Good. All right. We'll get you cooled off in a minute, okay? Hang in there, man."

Dean was as pliant and unwieldy as a large rag doll. Sam tore the sleeve of his overshirt trying to get it off, and left it in a heap in the truck, then pulled Dean to him.

"Gotta get you out of here first. Just, hang on, Dean."

Sam awkwardly slid on his knees and pulled, then dropped out of the truck and towed Dean out after him. Making sure his brother stayed in the meager shade of the vehicle, Sam reached a long arm for Dean's bottle of water that had rolled a few feet away.

Thank God for small favors.

Sam opened the bottle, Dean tipped against his chest, then nudged his brother's mouth with it. "Drink, Dean." He splashed a little over Dean's lips. "Come on, dude, that's an order. Drink!" Sam parted his lips, poured a little in. You weren't supposed to do that, risking choking if the person wasn't with it, but Dean had been raised first and foremost to obey orders, for God's sake.

And it wasn't hypocrisy to take advantage of that if it helped save Dean's life.

For a moment, there was nothing, then the limp body lurched, Dean choking weakly.

"That's it," Sam soothed. "That's it, just a little bit or you're gonna get sick," he added when Dean's body seemed to realize water was available and passive swallowing became eager lapping.

He pulled it away after a few sips, ruthlessly ignoring Dean's sub-vocal groan of disappointment. Instead, Sam tipped the bottle over Dean's face, his matted hair and grimy shirt. The water was warm, but any form of hydration they had, he'd take. Sam kept pouring until the bottle was nearly empty, then gave the last swallow to Dean.

Dean's eyes fluttered.

Sam pulled off his own shirt while he ducked down, trying to meet Dean's gaze. "Hey. Dean. You with me?"

"Mmm."

Laying his shirt out in the dust, Sam quickly scooped both shotguns into it, then tied it into an awkward bundle. "C'mon, man, you can do better than that. Where's the I-told-you-so, huh? Even if it was your idea to—"

"D-dad."

Sam's hands faltered to a stop, and he turned back to Dean. "What? Dean—"

"…no'…gun…can'…Dad."

The words were slurred, Dean's awareness questionable. His eyes were half-open but burning bright with the heat that was shutting down his body. It was frying his brain, and Sam started moving again, faster and more desperately, hoisting Dean up and over his shoulder, then, with gritted teeth, pushing to his feet, the bundle of their weapons in the hand that wasn't wrapped around Dean's waist.

Dean kept mumbling against his back, Sam catching snatches as he hurried as fast as he could back toward the car, his own breath and heartbeat loud in his ear.

"—sorry—Dad—ready—stupid—gun—sor'—" Apologies for not being ready, for making mistakes, for getting hurt. The hyperthermic were supposed to be combative, aggressive. But these weren't words of defense or belligerence, never a demand for anything but forgiveness.

Sam overlaid it with his own gasping litany: "Gonna be all right…get you cooled down…nothing to be sorry for…I'm here, man, I've got you."

Dean wasn't hearing him any more than Sam had been hearing his brother earlier, though.

By the time the car came into sight, Sam's muscles quivered from strain and exhaustion, dehydration starting to take its toll on him, too. He almost dropped his brother as he tried to ease Dean down against the searing side panel of the car, managing a controlled flop as his body quickly sagged next to his brother's. "I'm sorry," Sam whispered, and couldn't have even said for what just then. His own mind was starting to muddy, but they couldn't afford that. Marshalling his strength, Sam pushed himself back up and fumbled the car door open.

The car's inside was almost as hot as the truck had been. Sam breathed through his mouth, quelling a lurch of nausea as he felt around under the front seat. The bottles of water were warm, but they were wet and that was what counted right now. He drained a whole of one in a single pull, paused to pour another over himself, then turned back to Dean with a third.

Dean had started to move restlessly, head rolling against the painfully heated metal of his baby. "No," he said as Sam knelt in front of him again. "Not in…crap, he won'…" One hand fluttered up, only to fall into his lap.

"It's okay," Sam murmured. "I can fix this." Yeah, that didn't sound desperate. But when he said it out loud, it felt more certain. He held up the bottle to Dean's mouth, cupping the back of his already-dry head to keep him still. "Drink," Sam crooned.

Dean wrinkled his nose and squirmed away.

Sam huffed in frustration but pulled the bottle away, pouring it over Dean's chest and shoulders and head. His brother flinched under the warm bath, then turned his face up into it a little, mouth sagging open to catch dribbles. But when Sam offered him the bottle again, Dean muttered a curse and locked himself up tight once more.

Sam grimaced, then dropped his voice to a growl. "Dean! Drink!"

Dean's mouth fell open again, confused eyes fluttering at half-mast.

Sam hated their dad just a little bit right then, even as he was grateful.

Story of their lives.

When Dean had downed a few more swallows and the worst of the still, baked air had oozed out of the car, Sam got his shoulder under Dean and tugged him upright. Dean resisted, feet trying to plant and arm wriggling to get free, but his muscles were putty and there was no strength in the usually powerful frame. Resolve gave Sam fresh vigor, however, and he shoved his defiant brother onto his side on the front seat, hearing broken snatches of curses and pleas from a throat that sounded as scorched as Dean's skin.

And his name. A lot of his name, of "Sammy" and "Sam" and even a half-dozen nicknames from his early childhood. He wasn't sure if they were in connection with the cursing or the pleading.

Sam threw the bundled weapons in the back, rolled both windows down, locked Dean's door in case his flailing hands accidentally opened it, and turned the old a/c on as high as it would go, not caring what it did to the whining engine. The motel wasn't far, picked for its proximity to the junkyard, but Sam went fast to kick up at least a little wind into the stifling heat of the car. One hand clamped around the wheel, Sam fanned their dad's journal over Dean with the other. He should've probably raised Dean's head, too, he realized halfway, and dropped the journal momentarily to tug Dean up onto his leg.

His brother shivered, then stilled, mouth gaping like a dying fish, eyes rolling under the lids.

He nearly tumbled off the seat when Sam slammed into place in front of their motel room. Sam grabbed him around the upper chest, patting his ribs reassuringly. "Almost there, man." Then he was spinning out of the car, detouring to unlock the motel door first, then Dean's.

Dean's kick nearly got him in the groin. Sam was sluggish with the heat and didn't manage to completely dance away from even that clumsy maneuver, taking the blow to the hip. It made him grunt and stagger, but then he was pushing in, leaning over Dean, who maybe, maybe felt a little less hot.

"Hey, it's me. I've got some nice cool water waiting for you, man, just stay with me a minute, all right? We're gonna fix you up."

Dean, flushed and panting, glared through half-open eyes. "S'not him."

"Yeah," Sam agreed absently, peeling Dean away from the sticky vinyl. "It is, it's okay."

"Uh-uh. Tried but…can't…Sam…"

"I'm here, Dean." Sam slid out of the car, then to his feet, but his knees wouldn't hold him. With a sigh, Sam bent over, let Dean tip across his shoulder again.

Dean immediately tried to roll off, making Sam sway under his struggles. "No. Not him."

"Dude, cut it out," Sam barked, his own irritation boiling to the surface in the heat, or maybe just the heat of Dean's fever.

The command didn't push the same button this time. Dean lurched even harder, trying to free himself from Sam's grip.

Sam cursed and hurried for the room.

He stumbled a few times as Dean's efforts and his own lassitude nearly knocked him off his feet, accidentally banged first his elbow, then Dean's hip against the doorway. But finally inside, Sam made a straight line for the bathroom.

There was no tub. How could he have forgotten there was no tub? Grimacing, Sam manhandled his brother into the shower stall, propped him against the wall, then twisted the cold water on.

Dean shot upright with a cry at the shock.

Sam froze, mind churning. Cold was good, right? he second-guessed himself. Immersion, not slow application as with hypothermia. His thoughts were syrupy, but he was fairly certain of that. Still, Dean's breath was shuddering out of him, his eyes wide and nearly panicked, his hands grasping and dragging at Sam's arm, and Sam feared the cure almost as much as the affliction.

"Hey, hey," he remonstrated, hands moving to Dean's upper arms, pushing him back against the hard tile. "It's okay. Not the first cold shower you've had to take, right? It'll make you feel better—you got kinda hot there, man." The chilled water sluicing down his tender arms and hands was both relief and near-pain, and Sam could just imagine how it felt on his brother's baked body. "Dean, look at me. It's okay."

Dean's eyelids snapped open and shut a few times like some manic reflex, then contracted pupils darted over to Sam. His mouth was open, dragging air in with rough gasps, his fingers splayed as if his whole body was trying to open up and release the heat.

Sam's fingers dug into the now-clenched muscles. "Dean? C'mon, man, I need some kind of sign here."

"S-sam?"

He sagged, dragging a breath in. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me."

"Sammy?"

Sam nodded, moving up the slope of Dean's shoulders to feel his pulse and skin temp. The heart rate was still too fast but it no longer felt ready to fly off the rails, and his skin felt warm under the spray but not burning. "I'm here, Dean," he promised.

"No." Dean's voice fell to a whisper, head drooping. "Not 'nymore. Not Sammy." He slumped against the wall, breathing and pulse slowing a little, steadying, body shutting down to recoup.

Sam swallowed as he shifted to keep holding him upright, muttering a "Damn it, Dean," he didn't really mean. What could he say to that? If Dean had been looking in that file for the Sam he'd known from years ago, before Stanford and Jess and a taste of normalcy, no wonder he'd been frustrated. Sam couldn't be that old Sam for him, didn't even really want to. He'd just hoped Dean would change with him. Figured their dad would be there for him in the meantime.

Sam was starting to get the niggling suspicion, however, that John hadn't been any closer to his oldest than to his youngest. That while Sam had had Dean, Dean had often had nobody, and even less so after Sam left for school. That maybe Dean even envied him as much as the other way around.

But there was no way Sam could fix that, no way to make the last few years better or to take back his accusations. He didn't have anything else to offer here. Sam finally simply leaned his forehead against Dean's and closed his eyes, letting the water beat down on them both.

There were some things, however, that just couldn't be washed away.

00000

Sam started awake, almost sliding off the chair before he realized where he was. His second thought was Dean, and he blinked over at his brother, stifling a yawn as he did.

Dean was still sprawled pretty much how he'd been before Sam had dozed off: on his back, head dropped to the side and mouth open in a light snore, limbs curled in slightly toward him as he cooled down. Finally limp with relaxation instead of enervation. Last time Sam had woken him to drink, somewhere around dawn, Dean's skin had only radiated the mild heat of a sunburn, and Sam had helped him change into dry clothes. Dean had grumbled and shoved at him, brotherly irritation now instead of heatstroke-induced hostility. Sam had just smiled and left him to it. Which was why Dean's t-shirt was on backwards, not that he seemed to care, lost in sleep.

Sam stretched, twisting his head this way and that to get rid of the kinks and only halfway succeeding. Sleeping in chairs had become brutal when he'd hit his growth spurt, although he'd done his share of it in hospitals, libraries, the Impala's front seat. He gave in to a jaw-cracking yawn and eased his legs down, away from where they'd been nudged against his brother's hip. Dean grumbled in his sleep and turned on his side, hand slipping under his pillow.

Sam winced. He leaned forward in the chair, arching his back to loosen it while he reached out and gently pinched the skin on the back of Dean's hand. Still a little dehydrated but a lot better, and his breathing and respiration had been normal for hours. Sam breathed out slowly. Another crisis passed.

Another near-death skirted.

He couldn't help think about when or if Dean would have ever been found if he'd been hunting solo on this one. There was no question he would have died in that sweatbox of a truck. And that was just…not something Sam could deal with right now.

He licked his lips, glancing around the room. Several Gatorade bottles decorated the various pieces of furniture, but they were all empty. Time for restocking; he hadn't quite cleaned out the vending machine by the motel office, though the proprietor had given him the hairy eyeball when Sam had bought a handful of bottles the day before. Sam dragged himself to his feet, poked around until he found the room key on the floor just inside the door, then with a last glance at the still deeply asleep Dean, shuffled out the door into the rising heat of morning.

His path took him by a half-dozen other doors, and Sam remembered wondering as a kid who was in the other rooms. Bank robbers? Cross-country salesmen like—yeah, right—his dad? Normal families on normal vacations from normal houses? He didn't wonder much anymore.

At the vending machine, Sam reached into his pocket for change. He groaned when his fingers encountered only fabric; he hadn't brought his wallet with him. It was probably in the wet pair of pants still crumpled by the bathroom door, in fact. Sighing heavily, he turned back toward the room.

And almost ran into a wall of oily, scaly skin.

He thanked God yet again for John Winchester's training. Sam was throwing himself to the side before his brain even registered the _no way! _and started pumping the adrenaline. Somewhere between two cars, Sam put the rest together: _Gremlin_ and _another one_ and _oh, crap._

The creature hissed and moved toward the cars with a weird lope-step. Sam backed up another few feet, eyes frantically moving around the parking lot, looking for a weapon. He broke the antenna off one car, reached down slowly to fill his hand with two of the larger stones that lined the gravel lot, then prepared to run.

The Gremlin made a displeased grunting sound and darted suddenly toward Sam.

Sam took off, legs pumping in a full-out sprint, the one that had earned him invitations to be on several track teams over the years. No motivation like running for your life, though, and Sam flew toward the door and Dean and their weapons.

The Gremlin suddenly swung down from the eaves above, landing solidly in his path.

Sam swore and cut an abrupt right, heading back out into the lot. Where the end of the row of motel rooms jutted out. If he could just make it into the undeveloped strip of trees behind it, he could find shelter and makeshift weapons.

The Impala lay just ahead and, even fleeing, Sam gave it a wide berth. That was all he needed now, Dean's baby messed up along with him.

The growls behind him were close, but terror sped his feet. Sam whipped around the row of buildings in a blur, heading around back.

He'd just reached the back corner of the "L" of the building when the noises behind him became noises above and to his left, and Sam quickly veered away from the building,

Gremlins were as good climbers as they were fast, however. Sam heard the creature drop from the roof, and in seconds it was already in front of him, cutting him off from the forest.

Sam immediately whipped the antenna around into its face, then, while it yowled and reared back, pelting it with rocks. Sam didn't wait to see the result, whirling back to the rear of the motel.

He skidded to a stop as the Gremlin suddenly appeared in front of him again. Dark blood caked its face and murder burned in its eyes. Sam gulped. No pranks here: this one was out to kill. Probably avenging its mate, with their luck. Sam licked his lips, and braced himself to try to run one last time.

He startled when several shots sounded from behind the hulking creature.

The Gremlin jerked, eyes rounding in a very human look of bewilderment.

And then it toppled forward, Sam having to quickly sidestep to avoid being flattened.

Dean stood a dozen feet away, in the open back doorway of their room. Or, more exactly, leaned in it, hip to shoulder pressed against the doorjamb. A second, and his outstretched gun hand dropped back to his side, head and knee also jamming up against the painted wood supporting him.

Sam stared at him for a second, then gave a rusty squeak of a laugh. "Guess this means you're not mad at me anymore?"

Dean rolled his eyes, then his eyes rolled back again and stayed there as he started sliding down the wall to the ground.

Sam lunged to catch him, making the save just as Dean's knees cracked to the cement. Sam could feel the tremors of fatigue in his brother's body, the soft heat of his skin against Sam's.

The puff of breath against his own sweating skin as Dean muttered, "Guess…this makes me boss…'f you 'gain."

And, just like that, they were okay. "Shut up," Sam said on a laugh, lifting Dean back up onto shaky legs and tucking him under his arm. He could feel his brother flinch from the pressure on his damaged skin, but they had to get out of there quickly before people came to check on the gunshots. Already there were some stirs of activity in the motel. By evening, Sam knew there'd be news of the mysterious "gorilla"-shooting all over TV, and nothing about the men who'd risked their lives to end it.

He helped Dean back on the bed and found his wallet in his stiff, damp jeans. Sam turned, surprised to see Dean watching him even though his brother looked ready to sleep another twenty-four hours, then turn over for forty-eight more.

"I'm gonna get you some more Gatorade—I'll be right back, all right?"

"Take th' gun."

He was already reaching for it, and tipped it at Dean in acknowledgment.

"Sam."

Sam turned back from the door, quiet, waiting, suddenly anxious.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, left it draped over his eyes as he said, "Y're not like Dad, dude. I mean, ya're, but…" A frustrated shake of the head, and he let his hand drop but kept his eyes turned away. "Y' take more after Mom."

Sam opened his mouth, wanting so badly to ask how, why. But Dean looked like he'd pushed himself to the limit just to say that much, and Sam wasn't ready to have him retreat again. So all he said, tiny-voiced and unable to resist, was, "Still?"

He got a genuinely baffled lurch of the head for that, a slow blink. "What?"

Sam smiled, melancholy. "Even after the last few years?"

Another languid blink. Dean's body was already asleep, sunken into the mattress, his mind fighting the pull. "Still m'brother," he murmured, sounding bewildered about why this was even a question. A moment more, and his eyes finally fell and stayed shut.

Sam stood there considering that a moment. Okay. Maybe he wasn't Sammy anymore, but Dean's brother? That he could still do.

The resolve straightened his shoulders, eased the tightness in his chest. "Yeah." Sam swallowed and nodded. "Yeah, I am."

00000

"So." Sam eyed the notes critically, then glanced up. "Rawhead?"

"Rawhead," Dean said, nodding firmly. His skin had peeled into a golden tan that Sam knew he'd be preening over as soon as they were in mixed company, but it was the life that had filtered back into his eyes that Sam was so glad to see. Those last few days, they'd settled back into the ease of being brothers just as Dean had settled comfortably back into his skin. And Sam, in the darker corners of his heart, had settled a few ghosts of his father.

The hazel suddenly brightened, which was usually Sam's sign to run.

"Hey, we can finally break out those tasers I picked up in Mississippi. Ramped 'em up a few volts, too."

Sam smiled indulgently, shaking his head. He didn't even bother asking anymore how Dean knew how to do these things; his brother had been born to machines like Sam to books. He nibbled on a potato chip. "It's been taking victims at all hours, but I figure, we go out at dusk, we're less likely to get noticed."

Dean was nodding slowly, eyes moving over Sam's careful notes. "Sounds good."

Sam shifted in his seat and threw Dean a sideways glance. "You figured out where its home base is, didn't you?" He managed to say it offhandedly.

Dean paused, the spoonful of instant soup halfway to his mouth, and stared at him. Sam had been the one working on the creature's hunting grounds, but he'd seen Dean studying the map, knew he was good with patterns. It wasn't that much of a reach, and he didn't have to feign his respect for the ability.

Still, Sam held his breath.

In the odd red-tinted light of the motel room lamps, Dean's eyes looked black, unreadable. But the surprise was evident in the upward tug of his brow, his pride in the twitch of his lip. "Yeah, actually." He swallowed the soup, then reached for the map. "Take a look at this…"

Sam smiled, giving himself over to his brother's enthusiasm. Friend, parent, hunting partner, John's other son—whatever. It was Dean.

Sometimes, he wondered if he'd ever really been _Sam_ with anyone else.

**The End**


End file.
